


penthouse view (left some flowers in the room)

by jaih0



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Brock isn't a bad person in this fic, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky: the literary critic, Ex-boyfriend Brock Rumlow, Fluff, Journalist Bucky Barnes, Light Angst, M/M, Modern AU, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sharon and Bucky are friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27625072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaih0/pseuds/jaih0
Summary: He knew, through pure conjecture of course, that Pierce's office would be much nicer than the cramped desk Bucky sat at (which was the direct cause of Bucky starting yoga for his posture, by the way). The large white oval desk with the thick leather chair framed by large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking New York City was a little excessive, though. Bucky steeled himself, breathing in deeply, and opened his mouth to recite the speech of his usefulness that he had repeated over and over in his head over the last minute.All that came out was, "Please don't fire me." Sue him. There was a reason he didn't major in Public Communication.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sharon Carter, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sharon Carter & Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	penthouse view (left some flowers in the room)

**Author's Note:**

> song title from Khalid's "Talk"

Bucky did not double major in Journalism and English for this shit.

He understood where it was coming from, at least. Branching out was something every journalist had to do at some point, _especially_ if the journalist worked for Hydra. "If there's some fresh news today, we learned 'bout it yesterday'' was a common phrase to hear at the office, usually shouted quickly from the elevator by Alexander Pierce, stopping at the floor only for a cup of coffee before going up to the top floor. All employees were used to the feeling of dread settling in as the elevators wheezed to a halt, given that only top officials of the building used the elevator. It was always something about old news or fake news or whatever. Getting new news meant branching out. 

Except that Bucky didn't even _write_ for the news column. He was an established critic. He even liked to think that he was one of the best, given that being uncharacteristically blunt was his default setting. So when he was called up to the top floor one fine morning, one could say he was slightly defensive.

"I've been writing for this publication for five years, and they've never pointed out anything wrong before. I've never even been called up here before," Bucky muttered, the slight hum of the elevator sounding more affirming and patient than most people he knew. Brock Rumlow was one of those people, and Bucky knew he was going to get called on his bullshit from the sigh that the other man let out.

"You don't know that something bad is going to happen." Bucky didn't even deign to answer that, forcing Rumlow to awkwardly continue with, "I mean it's a large possibility, but I don't think you're going to get _fired._ " Bucky held back the undignified squawk that almost flew out of him. He didn't want to think about this being his last day in the office. 

The elevator slowed to a stop, and Bucky prayed that the elevator broke down and the doors were unable to open. Maybe then Pierce would accept how traumatized Bucky would be by the situation (being trapped in an elevator with your ex-boyfriend? Gross. Not that Pierce knew that Bucky and Rumlow dated) and then he would let Bucky keep his job out of pity. Then Bucky would prove once and for all that he is the best literary critic, and that it would be a national travesty to treat him as anything but. 

Bucky came to the conclusion, with no small amount of stress and panic, that the elevator doors would inevitably open. He would have to be prepared. It was fine; he would simply state all of the amazing contributions he had made over the years. Half a decade had to count for something. His critique of _Harry Potter_ had gone viral _before_ the JK Rowling shit had hit the fan. He was surprisingly well-versed in feminist literature as well. It would be an insult to Bucky's entire character if Pierce thought that Baron from IT who frequented incel sites when no one was looking could write prose on Emily Dickinson better than Bucky. _No one_ went harder for Emily Dickinson than Bucky. 

The elevator doors opened, and Bucky stepped out. Brock, the coward, left Bucky for the second time. He swore that the bastard had even pressed the button that prematurely closes the doors just to get away from him. No one used that dumbass button unless they really hated someone. 

He knew, through pure conjecture of course, that Pierce's office would be much nicer than the cramped desk Bucky sat at (which was the direct cause of Bucky starting yoga for his posture, by the way). The large white oval desk with the thick leather chair framed by large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking New York City was a little excessive, though. Bucky steeled himself, breathing in deeply, and opened his mouth to recite the speech of his usefulness that he had repeated over and over in his head over the last minute.

All that came out was, "Please don't fire me." Sue him. There was a reason he didn't major in Public Communication. 

Pierce's mouth curled at the edge, and Bucky was struck by just how ugly the man was. To some, that might seem like an odd observation to make when one's job is on the line, but given that rich men were usually Bucky's type, it was an astonishing conclusion; frankly, it was out of character. 

"Why, James," he purred, an even uglier, sickly sound that grated on Bucky like sandpaper, "Why would I do that when you've been such a loyal worker for all these years?"

Which was exactly Bucky's point, but it felt a hell of a lot more sinister coming from the mouth of a CEO. He gulped, his throat suddenly feeling sticky. Not in the warm way, like after swallowing a spoonful of honey, but more in the anxiety way, where it felt like a rock was lodged behind his uvula. It was in his best interest to talk, it seemed, but as soon as Bucky started to speak, Pierce decided that Bucky's voice was not needed or appreciated. There was some truth to that, but it still hurt. 

"I was only coming to check on you because I feel like you're not..." Pierce paused, adjusted the white collar of his cleanly pressed undershirt to lay more neatly against the black of his blazer. "With the program, to put it one way." 

Bucky was about to be fired, no doubt. "In what way, Mr. Pierce?" 

The way Pierce looked around the room as if he was thinking, as if seeing the rest of the room for the first time, would have infuriated Bucky had he not been shaking with fear. He was almost certain that his toes were numb, which was an unusual reaction, to say the least. 

"You're a talented critic, James, as I'm sure you know." Bucky did know. "But you're very old-fashioned." This was probably the right time to talk about his feminist angle with his critiques was definitely not old-fashioned, except that speaking was not a function that he had control over at the moment. Also, in the past minute that Pierce had graced Bucky with his presence, it seemed like the boss _was_ the type of guy to favor Baron from IT.

"Let's cut to the chase. No one reads the literature that you write about." Out of all the things that Pierce could have said to him, that came out of left field for Bucky. Pierce yanked a printed paper from his desk, scattering a few other papers in the process, waving it around furiously. Bucky couldn't make out the title, given that the paper was hanging on to Pierce's crusty fingers for dear life, but if he had to guess, it would have "James B. Barnes" as the author. 

" _As I Lay Dying?_ No one has heard of that book, and nobody _wants_ to know the possible symbolism of burning barns." Bucky's fascination for Southern Gothic novels was deeply wounded by that statement, but his offense was warded away by sheer panic as Pierce decided to walk around the table to plop his hand down on Bucky's shoulder. If it was possible for someone's cologne to be expired, Pierce's definitely was. Even though Pierce’s bathroom was no doubt lined with pretentious-scented hand soaps (like clean linen, peppermint, and lemon), Bucky’s hand-me-down, crumpled and stained, pale shirt felt dirtier than ever.

“This is shit that SHIELD has already done, and we can't just _do_ what SHIELD is doing.” Maybe Pierce should consider doing what SHIELD is doing, given that SHIELD is the most popular newsletter across the country. Bucky could only dream of working in that place with its livable wages and benefits, and- Pierce was still talking. 

"I got to be honest with you, James, the future isn't in _writing._ " Pierce literally owned a newspaper company; the irony was not lost on Bucky in the slightest. Given the proximity of the CEO’s hand to Bucky’s neck, he didn't even want to linger on that thought for longer than necessary. "I have faith in you as a critic to find something else to write about." And then he released Bucky's shoulder, leaving him stunned. Was that the only explanation that he was going to get? 

"So I need to find another thing to critique?" Bucky asked softly, once he realized Pierce wasn't saying shit else. Pierce shrugged, as if he wasn't a CEO of an important company and as if Bucky was just a random kid on the street asking for the time of day. 

"You need to find another thing or we'll find another writer." And that was that. Bucky's day had gotten drastically worse. He didn't trust himself to do anything other than nod and take his leave. With his back turned to Pierce, Bucky barely heard him say that "there's some promise in looking at modern art!" As Bucky stepped inside the elevator (and pressed the button that closed the elevator doors), he huffed out a sigh. Art. Modern art. What a joke. If painting a canvas completely white and hanging it for everyone to see would pay his rent, he would do it too. 

But his critiques were what paid his rent. And so he was going to critique art, college major be damned. 

\- - - - - 

"Even I've been to most of these galleries. People don't want me to explain shit that they can see every day, you know?" The coffee shop was fairly empty, which was a blessing that Bucky did not think to appreciate. Sharon Carter would have appreciated it more had Bucky not been with her. 

"No, Bucky, I don't know. You wrote critiques on basic literature all the time. Why is this any different?" Bucky loved Sharon most of the time, mainly because of how straightforward she was, but now, it felt more like she was kicking him when he was already down. His cinnamon-infused coffee sat disappointedly on the table, still waiting for him to drink. 

"That's different." He swirled the cold coffee cup around a few times, aimlessly. "Literature has nuance." 

"So does art." Bucky scoffed, taking a sip. It was a little too bitter for his tastes, but according to Sharon, drinking "pure sugar" could "irreparably damage someone's heart." Sharon didn't understand that Bucky's heart was built on the foundations of those rock-sugar candy sticks that he grew in his second grade classroom. 

The honks from angry drivers and the shouts of equally frustrated pedestrians outside the shop's windows felt distant, muffled by the glass. The action outside might have been enough to lift Bucky's spirits before, but he was under too much stress to appreciate the violence of New York. Even the number that the cute bartender had scrawled on his coffee cup after seeing Bucky's pride flag earrings (an important staple of his outfit) wasn't enough to boost his energy. He'd probably still use the number, though. 

"Okay, fine." Sharon's voice grabbed him out of his self-pity. She sighed, as if coming to terms with some mistake that she was about to make. "I have a friend." 

"That's a surprise." The glare that Sharon gave him was punishment enough for him opening his mouth, but it wasn't his fault. If Bucky hadn't already learned that speaking wasn't his best friend, he would never learn it. 

"Don't make me regret helping you.” There wasn't nearly enough cinnamon in his coffee, and that was saying a lot; one only had to put a little bit of cinnamon to taste the spice. The day was just bringing on disappointment after disappointment. “I have an artist friend, Steve, who's holding a secret gallery tonight." Bucky was immediately intrigued, sitting up straighter as he leaned forward. Maybe not a total disappointment, then. 

"Why didn't you lead with that?" 

"Jesus, Bucky, please shut up. I was trying to let you get all of your self-deprecation and ego out." She was blunt, at least. Bucky placed his hands neatly in front of him, curled, trying to portray the face of a perfect listener, even though he was far from it. The sound of his foot tapping furiously against the wooden floor gave away his facade. Sharon waited for a few more moments, waiting to see whether Bucky would break, before continuing on, speaking slowly.

"There's a secret art gallery being held tonight at his home. Steve invited me and a potential plus one, and-" She cut herself off upon seeing Bucky's raised hand, her lips pursing with annoyance. He took that as his opportunity to speak. 

"Why do secret art galleries exist?" He liked to think he knew about a lot of things, but secret art galleries were not something he knew of. Sharon shrugged, as if somewhat surprised that Bucky hadn't asked something offensive. 

"I think it's just to connect with other artists and see what's going down. Maybe get a potential price." That made sense to Bucky. He always wondered how certain paintings got a price tag of twenty five grand, but he knew that even if someone explained the process to him, he would still be confused. 

"So like… am I allowed to go?" A weird sense of insecurity flooded over him. If he was any more out of his comfort zone, he'd be in the West Coast or some shit. He almost _didn't_ want to go to this super secret art gallery. Almost. His job was still on the line. 

"I will take you as my plus one, for your job." Bucky could have kissed Sharon right on the lips if she would let him. That would have definitely hurt his chances of going as her plus one, though. "But Bucky, you have to promise me one thing."

Bucky could definitely do that. He would do anything for Sharon at the moment. 

"Please don't try to look smart and critique art in front of other artists."

Bucky didn't know if he could do that. 

\- - - - -

Of course Sharon's friend was rich.

She had said that it was a formal event, and that it was being hosted in her friend's home, but he didn't realize that "home" entailed a vast penthouse with peach walls, a red accent wall around the entrance. The natural light coming through the wide windows from the dying sun almost pulled tears from Bucky's eyes; that was the real art. The dark couches were shoved to the sides of the walls to allow space for the crowd of roughly forty people mulling about. The walls were covered, rather clumsily in some places, with large canvases. Bucky could tell which ones had been previously hanging in the house and which ones were placed up there last minute. 

Bucky turned to ask Sharon if she would walk with him so he wouldn't feel awkward but she was already making her way to the food table, which is what he wished he could be doing. He faced the rest of the house, and sighed. It was going to be a long night for him. 

He skirted around the throng of people and just stared. It was impossible to look at just one place. His eyes darted from the running horses that galloped across green fields and dead fields alike, to a dying whale carcass stretched out on a deserted beach, long forgotten by any tourist. Maybe it would have been worth taking at least _one_ art class. The mess of colors and techniques were as foreign to Bucky as mathematics. Nothing was speaking to him, even in a negative way. If Bucky had to explain it, he would have said that it was a blur; the colors, offset by the candle of the sun, all danced together in Bucky’s eyes, like how runny paints mix on a palette. There was as little distinction between each piece as there was in the clamor of conversations behind him. 

And then he saw it. The meticulously placed painting hidden in the curve of the hallway which led to the rest of the penthouse wouldn't have been seen by most, but once he spotted it, it was impossible for Bucky to not be pulled towards it. 

Maybe it was the way that the gold shone around the blonde woman centered in the middle of the canvas, or maybe it was the look in her eyes that radiated pure love. The softness of her face brought about a deep feeling of longing that stole the air from Bucky’s lungs, playing his ribcage like a forgotten song. Maybe not a forgotten song, but a song that he _should_ have learned; it was something that he had missed out on in his life, he was sure. Each strand of her hair was painted with single, thin strokes, all in varying shades of sunlight. That was what her hair was: celestial, in its purest form. The woman was framed by lilac flowers that danced across the border of the canvas, leaving shadows across her skin. 

The painter must love the woman as much as the woman loved the painter. 

"Enjoying the gallery?" The deep voice behind him definitely didn't belong to Sharon, and Bucky begrudgingly turned to face the man.

And wow. If it was possible for Bucky to have his gay awakening again, he definitely was repeating the experience.

Bucky tried to avoid the mental joke about nailing pieces of art against a wall, but how could he when the specimen in front of him was to him what David was to Michelangelo? The man's blond hair was somewhat gelled back, but one strand of his hair was draped down over his forehead, and Bucky had the sudden urge to tuck it back into place. It was either that or mess up the rest of his hair. His suit looked like it cost more than Bucky's entire life, a blue navy piece with paisley print, pressed to perfection. The man's eyes were somewhat familiar, but no less striking for that matter. Bucky was in love, and nearly forgot that he had been asked a question in the first place.

"Oh yeah. Yes," he corrected himself for no real reason. He wanted this man to think he was fancy and professional. "Yes, it's very… tasteful." 

If Bucky didn't know any better, he'd think the man was holding back a smile, and what an attractive facial expression that was. "I'm here as a plus one. My friend brought me, I think she's over by the food or something," Bucky blurted out before the man could ask him what he was doing here. Not that Bucky knew that he would, but it was expected. 

"I see." Somehow, Bucky felt as if he had disappointed him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to impress this man. His need to be validated was so alarming sometimes, and this was one of the situations where his longing for love crept up from the balls of his feet to his stomach to his chest, aching harshly. "So what do you do for a living, Mr..." 

"Barnes. Bucky," he got out, heat rising to his cheeks. For most people, the appropriate sentence to follow up with would be "What's your name?" Bucky, however, was still stumbling over the original question he was asked, and how to respond to it without revealing he was a critic.

"I'm a critical journalist." _Nice going, Bucky._ He mentally hit himself. Surprisingly, the man who Bucky still did not know the name of didn't seem to judge him for it. Most people did not have an opinion on Bucky’s job, but he figured a lover of art might find issue where there was none. 

"You're an art critic, then?" Somehow, the word "critic" seemed softer and more vibrant coming out of the man's mouth. Bucky was soothed by an odd wave of comfort that smoothed over his shaking legs and appeased the ache in his chest, if only for a brief moment. 

“Yes- well no, actually, this is my first time. But I don't know anything about art,” Bucky babbled without thinking. Luckily, it didn't seem to offend him. 

“First time for everything. Were you looking at this painting?” Bucky nodded vigorously, trying to compensate for the twenty-nine years of his life where he didn't give a shit about art. 

“Yes,” he replied, lightheaded from the amount of blood pooling at the center of his face. _Yes_ didn't seem like an adequate answer to how it made him feel, but Bucky was having a hard time focusing on anything with this man next to him. “It's very beautiful.” It was an understatement, given that Bucky felt unworthy of gazing at even one of the painstaking oil strokes. 

“Well, Mr. Barnes,” he murmured, and that definitely did something for Bucky. He never really liked his last name, but coming out of the man's mouth, it sounded much sweeter. A soft heat pooled at his stomach, like swallowing a marshmallow which had previously resided in a pool of hot chocolate. “Why don't you tell me about the art piece?” 

There was nothing he wanted to do less than talk to a man who probably knew more about art in his pinky finger (judging by the fact that he was at the event for the right reasons) than Bucky had in his entire body. “What?” 

“I'm trying to help you with your critique.” He would accept help from this man regarding literally anything else. “What's your thought process? Who’s the subject?” Bucky forced himself to face the painting again. He had to actually look like he was trying. Maybe then the man would just tell him that Bucky’s a dumbass and move on with his life. 

“The painter obviously loves the woman in the painting a whole lot.” Bucky was well aware that he was starting with the obvious. Suddenly, he didn't want to seem like such a dumbass in front of the other man. Tilting his head to the side a bit to meet the man’s eyes, he added, “But I don't think it's romantic.” 

His eyebrow raised, but judging by the slight incline at the edge of his mouth, Bucky felt that he had said the right thing. “What makes you think that?” Bucky worried at the skin on the inside of his mouth, looking back at the painting. He traced the round reddish cheeks of the woman in the portrait, the way that her eyes crinkled at the edges and the slight crease in her forehead. 

“Just the way that it looks. I can't really explain?” 

“Try me.” Bucky would definitely love to do that in any other setting, but in this context, he did not have the energy to seem more out of his element than he already was. Still, he persevered, as his job and possible affection from this man were both on the line. 

“The expression on her face. It feels…” He stared harder at the raw nature of the woman's face, the detail put into every single one of her skin's flaws, even though it was obvious to the artist that they were not flaws. “Like family,” Bucky decided, flicking his eyes to meet the man's. Bucky visibly brightened at the look of approval that he was given, bouncing his weight from his toes to his heels and back again.   
“Who is it?” Bucky had somewhat anticipated the question, but still found himself hesitating, his answer caught in his throat as he gulped. The woman smiled down on him, head tilted towards the ground as if looking at a child. 

“A mother,” he whispered, almost to himself. Bucky almost didn't need to look at the man to know that he was correct, but he did anyway, just to see his face. The smile he received was more radiant than the picture, so Bucky found it easier to glance back at the painting. Gripping his ill-fitting pants with one hand, insecure, he added, “At least, what a mother should be.” 

The man tilted his head. “What do you mean by that?” Bucky knew the true question. It wasn't like the man didn't know that some mothers just weren't good people; he was asking Bucky what kind of mommy issues he had to make him say something like that. Bucky didn't feel like unpacking it to a stranger at a gallery. If there was one thing he learned over the years, it was that therapy was never cheap, no matter what form it took. 

“To inspire so much love in a child to make something like this?" He spoke carefully, waving generally at the splendor of the painting. "She must have been amazing.”

“She was.” 

It was then that Bucky realized some things. It was actually an overwhelming amount of things. The first one was that the man spoke as if he knew the woman; his tone sounded like a lone wolf crying at night to a moon that he would never be able to reach until he too joined the heavens. That, paired with the way his eyes glazed over, as if reminiscing about a better time and place where the grass was greener and the lilacs grew in bunches on dark soil. At the same time, Bucky's eyes scanned the bottom of the picture to see a faint signature. As messily as it was scrawled, Bucky could make out a first name and a last name: "Steve Rogers." The first letters of both the first and last name were bigger than the rest of the letters, and the bottom of the S looped through the top of the R. His brilliantly slow mind offered him the few-hour-old memory of Sharon mentioning that her friend Steve was hosting the party. What do hosts do? They talk to dumbass people who look out of place at expensive parties that they should have never come to. 

“Oh." It took Bucky a few seconds to realize that he had said that out loud, and that _Steve_ was looking at him expectantly. "Oh no." That was possibly an even worse statement to lead with, but so was the life of Bucky Barnes. "Oh, I'm so sorry.” But Steve was already shaking his head and holding up his hands, as if Steve was the one consoling Bucky. 

“Don’t be." Steve was standing much closer to Bucky now, close enough that Bucky was able to analyze just how similar Steve's eyes were to his mother's; the small speckle of green, the slight curve at the bottom, even the way the light shone on them, was all reflecting in the art. "It's not like you insulted my painting, and even if you had, so goes the life of an artist.” Heat filled Bucky's cheeks. Wasn't that Bucky's job? To rip up people's life work? 

“No, no, because-” Bucky paused, knowing that he was about to say something so idiotic that even Steve- angelic, perfect, _forgiving_ Steve- wouldn't be able to look past it. The intake of breath that he took felt like a last ditch effort for air as he steeled himself, and spoke. “Well yes, I feel bad for trying to critique your art, but also are you Sharon’s friend Steve?” Steve nodded and a small smile graced his lips, as if that was supposed to make things better, but no, Steve's answer was terrible and Bucky wanted to scream. “This is your gallery and I've kept you here this entire time.” 

Steve made a _tch_ sound and waved him off, his hands soon finding refuge in the pockets of his well-tailored pants. “It's no stress to talk to you." Steve glanced at his shoes momentarily, as if checking whether the polished floor had any discrepancies (even though there was no chance that it did), before looking up at him. "I've enjoyed it, in fact.” Bucky hated the way that the statement made his heart feel like someone was banging a gong inside. It wasn't healthy. Even if Steve was a good person.

All of the good people in Bucky's life leave anyway, so Bucky may as well show Steve out the door personally. “You probably need to go back to the rest of the-”

Steve cut him off immediately. “Where do you work?” Bucky was nowhere near prepared for that question. Steve looked at him earnestly, as if expecting a certain answer. Bucky didn't know what that answer was supposed to be, so he answered off the top of his head, which meant that his response was (unfortunately) honest. 

“Hydra.” At his reply, some of the warmth slipped out of Steve's eyes, and Bucky felt the need to beg for forgiveness. “Heard of it?” He asked, as if Steve's expression wasn't a dead giveaway already. 

“You could say that I've had a few run-ins with Alexander Pierce.” 

“Oh.” There wasn't much else for Bucky to say or do other than look at his feet and silently curse Steve for making him discuss his job when their conversation had been going _so_ well before. “I'm sorry.” He really was sorry. His one full interaction with Pierce was still lingering in his mind like a headache. 

Again, Steve refused to accept the apology. “Don't be. He’s tried to buy SHIELD too many times to count.” Bucky's brain short-circuited. Steve was an artist and a journalist? Not an odd combination, but Bucky may have severely underestimated how much greater the opposing company's wages were, given that he was standing in Steve's "apartment." 

“You work for SHIELD?”

“I actually own SHIELD.” So not an artist and a journalist. An artist and a CEO. 

“Well, fuck,” Bucky said, before throwing his hand over his mouth in a way that would have seemed comical to him, had he not been the one doing it. At least he was honest about his feelings. “Sorry.” Steve laughed slightly, any hint of coldness gone from his tone and his eyes, the small crinkles at the edges making a triumphant return. 

“You're completely fine. I'm sure your boss isn't that bad, my encounters have just not been the best.” Bucky had started expressing his disagreement with Steve's words as soon as he had started talking, shaking his head furiously. 

“Oh no, he's terrible.” Pierce would have Bucky’s head for this, but Pierce wasn't here, and Bucky was known for oversharing, so anybody could have seen it coming. “If he wasn't, I wouldn't be trying to critique art at the possible expense of my job,” he added jokingly, though he could tell his humor fell flat with the way that Steve’s smile slipped away, replacing the look on his face with concern. 

“Have you ever worked anywhere else?” The worry in Steve’s voice spiked Bucky’s anxiety while simultaneously calming him, like the way the waves of the ocean crash against each other before pulling back, stroking at the sand underneath as if apologizing. 

“No. Apart from some waiter jobs, this was my only solid one after college.” 

“Huh.” Steve rocked back onto his heels, and his hand came up to his mouth. Bucky wasn't sure how someone could make picking at their teeth look attractive, but Steve could make anything look attractive. “Would you want another job?” And Bucky’s dirty train of thought crashed so violently in his brain that a very visceral reaction sprang onto his face, his eyes bugging out in what must not have been an attractive face to make. Before he had any chance to pass out or speak (which was honestly worse than passing out), Steve decided to take Bucky’s expression as apprehension and added, “We are hiring next month for SHIELD. You have time.” Bucky wasn't so sure about that. By the time he was finished picking his jaw off the floor, a month would have already passed. 

“Are you just offering me a job?” Bucky spoke slowly, not trusting himself to say anything past that. He wondered whether he sounded ungrateful; there was only a certain amount of time that Bucky could speak with a person before irreversibly changing their opinion of him for the worse. 

“Well, no, you'd definitely have to bring your resumé but you would get in.” If Bucky’s eyebrows were any further up, they would be in his hairline. He hoped that Steve wasn't judging his prowess off of the one conclusion he came to over the painting; if so, he might have to rethink how good of a company SHIELD is, and whether it was really worth his time. As if sensing his disbelief, Steve murmured, “Bucky Barnes is the same person as James B. Barnes, I'm guessing?” And Bucky was flustered again. Steve had read his articles. “I've read your articles. I think you'd fit in well.”

“Oh, I-” 

“Bucky!” He didn't want to turn around, didn't want to acknowledge the _clip-clop_ of Sharon’s heels against the floor, didn't want to acknowledge Sharon. He turned anyway, if only to not seem rude in front of his potential boss. “Oh, you've met Steve.” Bucky had met Steve, and the fact that Bucky had met Steve as Sharon’s plus one was the only thing keeping him from throttling the shit out of her. “Steve, I gotta go because I just realized that Peggy needs someone to babysit, and Bucky’s my ride." 

The air was punched out of Bucky’s lungs. His time couldn’t be up. Realistically, he knew he was being dramatic, but something told him he wouldn't see Steve again, ever. His pulse jumped before accelerating at a speed which was not healthy. And why should Steve see him? Even if he managed to quit Hydra, he probably couldn't get into SHIELD, no matter what Steve thought he had read. He was just being nice to Bucky by saying he had a chance. And even if he did work for SHIELD, why would someone like Steve talk to someone like Bucky? There was a reason that his first full conversation with Pierce had been after five years. 

He had to make his peace with it. All good people leave. Facing Steve, he forced himself to inhale. 

“Oh, well I- Sharon, stop pulling,” he hissed as she looped her fingers around his bicep, trying to yank him towards the door. Steve just looked on affectionately, as if he too was well-versed in Sharon’s shit (and he probably was). 

“That's a shame, but don't go right away.” Bucky perked up at that. “I got to get you guys your leaving gifts!” He tried not to let his disappointment show, but as Sharon would tell him later, “it was like eating the last bit of food in front of a puppy.” She clung to Bucky as they walked to the door, turning around as the angel that is Steve walked back up to them, two small cream paper bags with white gift paper and small golden sparkles. 

“Bye Sharon. Bye Buck,” he said, and Bucky melted internally at Steve’s even shorter nickname for him. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but was there more warmth in Steve’s tone when he addressed Bucky? “Hope to see you again sometime, it was nice to meet you.” It was quite possible that Bucky had stared at him for longer than was socially acceptable, but he wanted to memorize his eyes. It must have been odd from Steve’s point of view, though, to see Bucky's eyes glued to him like a roughly-done kindergartener’s craft, even while he was handing him the gift bag. 

“Likewise. It was nice to talk to you, Steve,” he finally mumbled, a gust of air from the door opening much too fast tickling the back of his neck. That had to be the only reason for the goosebumps that appeared on his skin, after all. 

“Bucky, please hurry up. Bye Steve!” Sharon called from behind the door, before tugging Bucky back and shutting the door. The last thing Bucky saw of the gallery was Steve's eyes turning away to face the rest of the people. 

\- - - - -

Bucky had dropped Sharon off at Peggy’s and come straight home, even though Sharon had instructed him to eat something on the way back. Bucky dropped the gift bag before flinging himself into the arms of his half-inflated air mattress, letting it wheeze as he sunk even closer to the floor. He should have found it in him to be more concerned with the _clunk_ that sounded from the gift bag, paired with a sound that was most likely paper ripping, but he instead focused on how damn _sad_ he was. 

There was no reason that made any sense for him to be so caught up over a man that he had talked to for less than an hour. He knew that was how Steve would see it, anyway. Bucky was just another conversation for Steve, a potential employee even, and that was as far as that goes. Even as it was, there was nothing else to think about; he was getting fired from Hydra for sure. There was no grand critique he could write, just the bare bones of a poem filled with longing that would never see the light of day. 

Bucky regretted attending the event. No one would read a vague prose on a mother who loves her son, with no title to the piece, and no name of an author that Bucky could write without being struck with pure loneliness. The eyes in the painting were fading slowly from his memory anyway.

He moved his face to the side, so that it was only his cheek squished against the pillow, and faced the discarded bag. A small candle had rolled out of it, and while Bucky couldn't read the label from the angle it was tilted, it smelled like homely and comforting, with a slight bit of spice: cinnamon. Peeking out of the bag was a bag of chocolate covered almonds, which was always appreciated. What got Bucky to prop himself up by his forearm, though, was the piece of cheap notebook paper that seemed to have been taped hastily to the side of the bag. Judging by the fact that there was a minuscule portion of the paper lingering under the tape, and most of the paper was pinned underneath the candle, Bucky assumed that the paper was the cause of the ripping sound that he had heard earlier. It was only a small portion that remained on the bag, though, so it didn't rip up anything important. 

Stretching out towards the bag, he shoved the candle to the side and grasped the paper carefully. Upon reading, Bucky sat up so straight that he was sure he put his yoga positions to shame. On the paper, nine digits were written, and under them was a note, the handwriting not dissimilar to a certain signature at the bottom of a painting. 

_Just in case you ever want to meet up for coffee and discuss more art. By the way, I love your earrings :)_

Bucky reached up and traced over the small flag that slithered across his earlobe, fairly sure that his skin was matching the first color of the banner. Whether or not he called Sharon in the next few minutes and screamed at an octave that should not be allowed was no one's business, and whether or not Steve’s number was hurriedly entered into his contacts as soon as he got a hold of his phone and memorized fifty times over remained a mystery. It was uncertain even to Bucky whether he had chugged the lukewarm bottle of beer sitting on the counter and emailed [ apierce@hydra.net ](mailto:apierce@hydra.net) a quick “see ya later fool.” It was premature, of course, given that Bucky had no job lined up for him, but what the hell, he would get fired tomorrow anyway. 

It was not purely conjecture to hypothesize that Bucky slept easy that night, though, with the scent of cinnamon and the image of warm, green-blue eyes reinvigorated in his mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dealing with some writer's block regarding "a stranger to my eyes" so I thought I would just play around and this fic was born! I'm obsessed with the concept of artist Steve, and I hope I've done him justice.


End file.
